Stranger Things Have Happened
by pieandsouffle
Summary: Peter Parker wakes up in a strange place, beaten and bruised. Oh yeah, and the Devil of Hell's Kitchen is making him soup. Or, all the times Matt Murdock accidentally-probably-not-on-purpose bumped into various superheroes, Avengers, and vigilantes.
1. Spider-Man

**I'm having a terrible time trying to get _It's On Again_ going again. So here, since I started watching _Daredevil_ and in light of the new Spider-Man reboot.**

* * *

Peter's spider-senses allowed him to be aware of almost anything. The vague smell of blood in the air. A change in the direction of the wind. The near-imperceptible shiver that ran up his spine when a gun was pointed at him, milliseconds before it fired.

He knew and felt everything the instant it happened, but right now he couldn't even _think._ All he could think of was pain; the throb in his thigh, pulsing more intensely as he slowly woke; a stabbing in his ribs he could swear he could _hear,_ cracking away with every breath. And his _head-_ oh, that was the worst. Were his brains leaking out? There was warm liquid on the nape of his neck, and it wasn't water or sweat, so that left only brains or blood, and both were a lot worse than he had hoped for.

It took far too much effort to focus on something other than agony, so it was a long time before he realised that this wasn't home. Home smelled like Aunt May's cooking, good _and_ bad, her meatloaf everyone ate with fixed smiles and gritted teeth, and the spaghetti bolognaise a man would kill to get the recipe for. The residual, distinct scent of Uncle Ben's horrible old cologne he had insisted was the bee's knees, while Aunt May had made faces at Peter from behind him. It smelled musty from when Uncle Ben (and now, just Aunt May) couldn't reach the top shelves with the duster, the shelves that were filled with crazy old relics no one really wanted but couldn't bring themselves to get rid of. And once, the light vanilla smell of Gwen's perfume, but it didn't smell like that anymore because Gwen was gone, wasn't she? Now, Em Jay's overpowering floral took control of the house, different from Gwen's but just as nice.

This wasn't home. It smelled too pristine, there wasn't anything interesting in the room, disgusting or otherwise, except the strong smell of chicken soup.

Half his face was being squashed into a sofa that wasn't his own. His eyes flicked open, but his stomach dropped down to about where his thighs were when he realised he couldn't see. He opened his mouth to verbally panic, but someone else's voice interrupted his just as he took breath.

"Relax. One of your eyes is swollen shut and the other is pressed into the couch."

Peter froze. Of course, the man had a point, but Peter was suspicious and perhaps-maybe-slightly-concerned-verging-of-petrified, and he would give no victory the stranger whose couch he was sprawled on and bleeding on.

He shifted his head, and was given a view of a very plain and boring room, set with only two couches and a coffee table planted in the middle. No pictures on the walls. He swivelled his head slowly to get a good view of the room, his peripheral vision failing him miserably with the absence of one eye. No wallpaper. Everything was just grey, or white, or black, or _something;_ there were no lights on and the billboard outside, however bright it _was,_ didn't exactly help him.

He had to shift his aching body into a sitting position to see the man talking, who was leaning over a kitchen bench-top, eyes a little blank like he was so exhausted he couldn't really focus on anything. The man looked as bad as Peter felt. There was a long cut that must have only just been stitched up across his chin, and his nose and eye were bruising quite spectacularly, even in the minimal light.

"Where am I?" Peter asked. Although croaked, rasped, or 'the-hacking-sound-a-dog-makes-before-it-throws-up' were probably better descriptions of how his words came out.

"My apartment," the man said unhelpfully, striding over, but not before stumbling a little on a corner of carpet that had been turned up. "Hell's Kitchen."

Peter's memory suddenly decided to return now that it was convenient. There was that fight, a long way from home, with that psycho who was after him for no reason other than the fact he was wearing a mask, who was beating on him pretty bad and threw him off a roof when he was only semi-conscious, and then-

"The Devil of Hell's Kitchen," Peter realised, and the man made an almost imperceptible face. "Sorry, _Daredevil_ ," he corrected, doing his best to smirk, but it was hard and a cut in the corner of his mouth just made it hurt more than it should.

"They're not good names, are they?" the man said mildly, sitting opposite him on the other sofa.

"I did better," Peter said. "Spider-Man is a great name. Came up with it myself."

The man huffed lightly out of his nose by way of laughter, and the corners of his mouth lifted slightly. "I can tell, surprisingly. The police don't do a better job."

Peter frowned with one eye, his sluggish brain wondering whether he had just been insulted, but the man pushed a bowl across the coffee table towards him, and he couldn't argue when there was chicken soup _right there._

"You should eat," the Devil told him. Peter snatched the food from the table, but couldn't resist the urge for a bad joke.

"Is this when I should resist the urge to eat, so as to save my soul from damnation in Hell?" he asked.

Was it just him, or did the man's slight smile disappear? Or did it widen? "As a Catholic devil," Daredevil said pleasantly, "I can tell you another joke like that _might_ get you planted in the ground somewhere."

Peter's eye bugged. "You're religious? Oh man, I'm sorry, I had _no_ idea-"

Daredevil waved away his apology with a smirk rising on his face. "I'm fine with it, but you'll have to watch out for some of the nuts out there who might crucify you for something like that."

Peter shuddered and immediately regretted it when his rib gave a nasty jolt inside his chest. Daredevil's smile dropped, and he rose like some kind of guardian angel prepared to give an ass-whooping to whoever broke his rib.

"You don't have a bad break, just a light fracture," Daredevil told him, walking past, his fingers brushing the back of the couch like he wasn't really sure it was there. For half a second, Peter was sure he was getting a scalpel or something from the tone of his voice, but when he returned from the kitchen, he just handed Peter a spoon.

"I'm not going to let you drink straight from the bowl, that won't be good for your head." He made a vague gesture. "You got hit pretty badly just above the nape of your neck."

Peter shifted the spoon and bowl into the same hand and tentatively raised a hand to the back of his head. There was one of those huge white sticky bandages plastered over the area, and his hair poking up around the edges was soggy. Something about that puzzled him, but his brain couldn't quite process just what that was. He hissed when he prodded it, and pulled his hand away.

Daredevil was still watching him, or something behind him anyway. His eyes were looking just a little to the right of Peter's head. Peter made a face, and made to pull his mask just up s he could eat, but as he patted his face, he realised it wasn't there.

The absolute terror he had felt before when he first woke up reappeared, and he almost dropped the soup.

"You see my face," he whispered, and Daredevil, to his credit, didn't laugh.

"That was my reaction too, when I woke up in a stranger's apartment with my mask gone," he said seriously. "You don't have to worry about me giving away your identity."

"But you _see_ me," Peter repeated, feeling more distraught.

The man seemed to ponder that. "To an extent," he said eventually. "To be very honest, it hasn't really made a difference. I wouldn't be able to anyone what you looked like if I were forced to."

"What? How? That doesn't make sense," Peter started, but the man's eyes were still staring a foot to the side of his head.

He blinked with his one eye, and stared.

"You're blind?"

Daredevil nodded, eyes still fixed whereabouts the kettle was. "That's right. You don't have to worry about me giving up your identity."

Peter looked down into his soup, and finally drank some.

* * *

"There's one thing I don't get," Peter said as Daredevil refilled his soup bowl. "Why did you take _your_ mask off?"

Daredevil put the empty saucepan down on the table. "When you woke up, you mean?"

"Yeah. You could have just kept it on. Since you technically haven't seen my face."

Daredevil smiled mildly again. He seemed to do that a lot. He didn't really seem like the kind of person who would dress in a dumb costume at night and beat people up. More like a doctor, or someone with a nice, lawful profession. Of course, he couldn't be a doctor, since eyesight was probably extraordinarily valuable in such a career.

"I know you're a kid. And kids get scared. My rule is whenever I save a kid, I let them see my face. They should be able to see who I am. That I'm not a threat to them."

"I'm twenty," Peter said.

Daredevil tilted his head. "No, you're not."

Peter grumbled into his soup. "Seventeen, then. Old enough to not get scared."

"I have to disagree with that. You were terrified when you first woke up. You relaxed a little when you saw my face. Waking up in a stranger's home, and that stranger has a mask on… whatever you pretend it is, Spider-Man, it's frightening.

"Now, imagine you're a four-year-old who's been pulled into an alley, away from your parents, by some strange grown man with ill intent. And a man in a mask appears, beats him up. You'd be afraid he was going to continue what the first man started. That's why I show my face. It's hard to remember after that shock, but it slows their heart-rate a bit, lets them see reason."

"Are you comparing me to a four-year-old?" Peter asked, slightly offended.

"All minors are the same under the eyes of the law."

"And I suppose as a vigilante, you are the law?"

Daredevil's mouth quirked up in the corner. "In more ways than you think. Now for goodness sake, go to sleep. And call your parents, tell them you slipped and fell, and that some blind guy found you. Stop them worrying." A phone dropped itself into Peter's lap. "If you feel up to walking, you can take my bed. I still have more to do tonight."

Daredevil pulled the mask back over his face.

"Out to beat up more people?"

"Yeah. Speaking of which, the next time I catch you out super-heroing and beating on criminals, I will find out where you live and physically drag you back there."

"Hey! I can take care of myself!"

"Can you?" Daredevil stuck his billy clubs in some holster on his thigh. Then he stood up straight and folded his arms. "Here's a deal. You stay out of this until you turn eighteen. But I _know_ you are underage, and as an adult I am legally obligated to prevent any possible harm that could be inflicted on a minor. I don't want to see you out there until you are an adult and are able to make your own decisions-"

"I can-!"

"-In the eyes of the law," Daredevil finished. "Until then, stay out. You hear of anything, you contact the police or me. You don't get yourself involved." Then he vanished through the window.

Peter glared at the place where Daredevil had been four seconds ago, and wrapped the blanket around his shoulder more comfortably. He had a week until his eighteenth. Surely he could wait that long.

He sighed, and picked up the phone to call Aunt May.

* * *

 **Huh, sorry about _It's On Again._ I am still trying to get it started back again. I'm at one of those points where I'm not entirely certain where it's going.**


	2. Steve Rogers

**The continuing adventures of Matt Murdock meeting various superheroes**

* * *

Steve knew, that for a man who had been ripped from his time and thrust into one so different and complicated than his own, he was dealing with the shock of it far better than anybody could have hoped. He adapted to the technology well, he fought back fiercely against Stark's sarcasm; there was even a tally Natasha kept on who had scored the most points against the other: the billionaire playboy or the orphan from Brooklyn. He had friends, more than just one, which was a considerable improvement in his sociability from the 1940s, when he had only Bucky, then Peggy and the Howling Commandoes, and then they were gone once again.

Still, when life became too hard, when Tony was too annoying, when the technology eventually flew over his head, or when he just felt swamped and small and stupid even though there were so many gazing up at him in heartfelt admiration, Steve would grab his shabbiest jacket and walk through New York. Only the backstreets. The mains were filled with people who would recognise him. In the slums and ghettoes, people kept to themselves, and he felt normal for once.

If he ignored any cars he saw, half-open personal computers shining brightly through cracks in curtains, or passenger planes overhead, he could almost pretend he was back home in Brooklyn. All the way back when he was supposed to be.

It smelled similar, at least.

The dumpsters somehow looked more exotic and flashier than back in the day, which was one of the most absurd things Steve had noticed. But as a teenager and much younger man, he'd spent an awful lot of time inside them, and he was certain the experience would remain exactly the same.

Steve tugged his jacket a big tighter around his shoulders, an unnecessary gesture. He barely felt the cold anymore. He squirmed to get past a narrow alley, which, back in the day, would have been four times his breadth.

Ah, at least no one had the guts to try mugging him.

Steve shouldered himself out of the alley, which had opened up into a boxy side street lined with rickety stairwells. He could see a few cars going past at the end of it, maybe there was a main street there. He'd been wandering aimlessly for hours, and it was probably time-

 _Thwack._

The familiar meaty sound of someone being brutally punched sounded crystal clear. There was a cry, one more of annoyance than pain, and before Steve knew it, he was dashing for one of the stairwells.

It groaned and creaked under his weight, but Steve was taking four steps at a time, dashing to the top of the fire-escape, and onto the roof.

"You-" a voice growled from below, and Steve leaned over the top of the building to see a suited man backing away from a gang of black-clad thugs armed with knives.

The man in the suit didn't appear particularly worried. "Really? It's not exactly my fault your friend there got beaten up the second he got out of court."

"It _is,_ " one of them snarled, prowling like a wildcat. "He was free to walk, without the police, and because of _you_ he got grabbed."

The man choked on a laugh. "You're attacking me because I successfully got your friend of a rape charge? By- hm, how should I put this- doing the job he _hired_ me to do?"

Apparently they didn't know how to counter this, and the one closest to him took a swipe with his switchblade.

Steve dove for the stairs closest to them, jumping down a flight at a time. The metal shrieked at him, not loudly enough to cover the sound of fists beating flesh and knives sparking against the metal dumpsters.

He landed heavily on the ground, just jumping the railing and falling the next three metres, and immediately socked the closest attacker on the jaw. He'd barely managed to turn towards Steve before he was lying unconscious. The next two were careful, warily treading around him like he was a wild animal that needed to be tamed.

The lone man in the suit was doing an excellent job fending off his attackers. Three were already still on the ground, or twitching an moaning, but the last one (and the _largest_ one, he made Steve look like a toddler on steroids) managed to get a punch in.

The suit sagged, stumbling backwards with blood spurting from his nose, arms still up and ready for the next punch, but the large man just backed away, and raised a gun.

The suit tensed, and the gun went off.

The bullet tore a hole through someone's washing, and crunched into a wall, four metres above the man's head. The would-be shooter crumpled to the ground, a large and vivid bruise already blossoming on his temple from Steve's fist.

The suited man warily straightened, fumbling in his suit pockets, drawing out a packet of tissues and holding one to his nose.

"Thank you for that," he said, wiping away his nosebleed as best he could. He took cautious step forward, and Steve's eyes immediately zeroed in on his limp. "Not the first time that's happened, but help was definitely appreciated."

Steve shrugged. "You were doing well on your own," he said, picking up a pair of red-tinted sunglasses from the ground, miraculously intact.

The man wasn't looking at him, his gaze was somewhat distant. "Well, I was managing. Just about." He laughed softly. Then he stretched out his hands and patted the wall beside him, guiding himself back onto his knees. He patted the ground around him, a small crease between his eyebrows. "Sorry, you haven't seen a pair of glasses, have you? Or a cane…"

Steve held out the glasses.

The man didn't react, and continued his search of the ground, tapping about lightly with his hands. Steve looked over to the side of the alley, and, lying forlornly beside the stairwell, was a white-tipped cane.

Steve blinked. "You're blind?"

"Yeah," the man said, briefly interrupting his search to tilt his head in Steve's direction. "Can you-?"

"Of course," Steve told him automatically, and placed the glasses in the man's palm. He walked over to the cane and brushed some of the mud off it.

The blind man was standing when Steve got back to him, his glasses propped up on his nose, hiding what was likely going to become a _spectacular_ black eye.

He looked far more comfortable with the cane firmly back in his grasp, and he smiled at Steve. "Thank you for your help. You probably saved me a few broken ribs, a concussion, and death."

Steve shrugged. "I don't know. Seemed like you were managing fine until he got the gun out."

The man nodded. "I suppose."

"You need help getting back to the main street?" Steve offered.

The man shook his head and smiled. "I know the area pretty well. But you don't sound like you're from around here. More like _you'll_ need help getting back to the main street."

Steve raised his hands in a gesture of defeat.

"You just did something with your hands, didn't you," he said with a slight eyebrow arch.

Steve sighed. "Yes. Sorry. Also, where would this main street be? Suburb-wise. I wasn't really thinking of where I was going, and it's been several hours since I was in upstate New York."

The man huffed out a laugh. "You're in Hell's Kitchen." He stretched out a hand to Steve. "I'm Matt Murdock."


	3. Bruce Banner

Matt was dreaming.

And it wasn't a gut-wrenchingly awful, get-down-on-your-knees-and-cry terrible, which was really what was the most surprising about it. His usual dreams involved him kneeling beside a corpse in an alleyway, knees in inch-deep water, and hands trembling as they rested on the body's sticky, bloody face. The identity of the body always changed, but the dream was, otherwise, exactly the same. Sirens, the hot wet smell of blood, and his own heartbeat drumming painfully loudly in his ears.

When he as a child, the body was always his father's. And why wouldn't it be? He had no one else, no friends, no other family who wanted anything to do with him. Just the two Murdock boys- and then, just the one- against the rest of the world.

When he met Stick, it was suddenly his shrivelled old mentor lying dead in the rain. He never old Stick about it, obviously; Stick would have snorted, gotten angry, knocked him to the ground. "Get up," he would have said. "Get up!" And Stick left him when Matt gave him a fucking _bracelet,_ of all things. What would he have done if he'd discovered the kid he was training to be a soldier was constantly frightened over his death?

At least Matt understood what an asshat Stick was now. But that didn't change the fact that if Matt _did_ find that old man's corpse growing cold in a side street… he wouldn't just keep walking.

College, there were only two people who haunted his dreams as bled-out corpses, who he laid awake sometimes worrying about: Foggy, and Elektra.

Foggy was bold and loud and hilarious, didn't dance around him like he'd shatter at the slightest touch, but it didn't change the fact that Matt could _feel_ just how weak Foggy's body was. His lungs rasped with asthma; the smallest sprint had him panting and doubling over, lungs straining. Foggy's left ankle was hyperflexible. He strained it all the time. He had astigmatism, he couldn't see properly and didn't wear glasses because he was far too proud to.

If someone went after Foggy in a dark alley with a gun- he would never, _ever_ be able to defend himself.

Elektra… Elektra Natchios was interesting. Dark, independent, strong in more ways than just physical strength. She was charismatic and elusive and fiercely intelligent.

And, Matt sometimes though, most importantly, she did not treat his disability as though it defined everything he was. And she expected others to behave the same, or suffer her wrath. (A frat-boy once yelled abuse at Matt from across the street, when Elektra was there beside him. He turned up at the emergency room with a broken wrist and a smashed ego. That, Matt supposed, was when the cracks started showing.)

Elektra was more likely to put someone in that alley than be the one lying down in it. When they stopped seeing each other, however regretful he was, Matt knew it was for the best.

And now it was Foggy, Karen, and Claire.

Karen, who nearly died every other week from attempting to expose corruption scandals. Who was singularly selected for careful execution for getting her nose into the Union Allied files. And who still didn't press Matt for the secret she knew he and Foggy were both keeping from her.

She'd work it out herself, he was sure. She was clever. She probably already suspected, and was merely looking for evidence.

Claire had been specifically singled out and attacked to get to him. They had gone after her because she had helped him, they'd almost killed her just to get his name from her. And even through all of that pain, she hadn't given him up.

She was in Spain now, to Matt's great relief. Quite safe from the bullshit going on in Hell's Kitchen.

Still. Matt missed her.

And as none of these loved ones were lying dead in his mindscape, and his dream was really quite nice, it was understandably a disappointment to be woken far earlier than he should have been.

Foggy's newly personalised ringtone, the dulcet tones of him bellowing his own name, Karen laughing ridiculously in the background, shattered Matt's deep sleep, and he woke up abruptly and unpleasantly. The first few seconds after this rude interruption were spent glaring at the invisible ceiling, and softly swearing.

"Foggy? What's happening?" Matt demanded the second he slapped hi phone into answering the call.

Foggy laughed at him. "And good morning to you too, sunshine! Time to get the hell up!"

Ah, no peaceful morning greeting for today.

"Why? My alarm hasn't even gone off yet. What is it, 5 in the morning?"

"5:25. But that doesn't _matter,"_ Foggy said, sounding far too delighted to be up this earlier. Matt thought wistfully of the good night's sleep he might have had, had he not been beating up that rapist he'd defended and afterwards beaten up, who was prowling a McDonald's parking lot for victims. He just never learned.

Matt squeezed his eyes shut and groaned. "Foggy, I went to sleep two hours ago. Any reason for this? Or is it just revenge?"

"Revenge, partly," Foggy said helpfully. "I'm still annoyed about your new acquaintance."

He huffed out of his nose. "Foggy, I had _no idea_ he was Captain America until I heard his voice on the news," he tried to explain. How many times had he told Foggy that? It must have been rapidly approaching the triple digits. But Foggy accepted no excuses when it came to his childhood hero. "You know how many 'Steve Rogers' there must be in New York? A _lot._ "

"I know!" Foggy said brightly. "But I don't really care."

"You sound like Marci."

"You take that back. And I have no sympathy for you being exhausted over your questionably illegal night-time activities."

Matt forced himself to sit up. "You have someone there with you?" It wasn't like Foggy to be so- _elusive_ when talking about Matt's night-time criminal activities if he were by himself. If he wanted to say something, he would say it straight out. No fudging around. And Foggy delighted in telling Matt that beating people up was A) illegal, B) morally wrong, and C) ironic and completely hypocritical considering Matt was an innocent lawyer in the daytime, maniacal vigilante by night.

So, there were two possibilities as to Foggy's company.

"Don't tell me Karen is up as _well_. Do you two _live_ off coffee and energy drinks? When was the last time you had an actual night's sleep?"

"July. Anyway, when did _you?_ Not since college?" Foggy laughed. "Nah, it's not Karen. I think she's asleep, or buying energy drinks. We have a client."

Matt let his head fall back and hit the headboard. "A client? At 5:30 in the morning?"

"The law waits for no man."

"Shut up. I'm coming." Matt heaved himself out of bed and padded over to the bathroom, snatching his phone as he went. "Anything I should know before I get there? Crime, etc.?"

"Extensive property damage. Under a pseudonym, of course."

"Under a _pseudonym_?"

"Yeah. Like broke a bunch of stuff when he- _was_ someone else. So, he's being sued. You'll find out more when you get here."

"That's not really a pseudonym. That would be when someone has a secret or separate identity, under which they partake in questionable activities, like writing novellas. You're saying this client is being sued, but not under his 'pseudonym'. And if he's being sued under his actual identity for something his counterpart has done, the-"

"Fight me, Matt. Just get here and we can argue about it then." Foggy sounded gleeful. A high calibre client, perhaps? This was just getting more and more suspicious.

"Yeah, okay. I'll try be there in twenty."

"I look forward to it, mi compañero de avocado."

"Please don't try to speak Spanish. It doesn't work."

* * *

Matt made a show of fumbling with the doorhandle as he listened carefully to the heartbeats in the room. Two. One Foggy's easily recognisable heartbeat, steady and strong with a touch of raspiness to his breathing, and a fluttering one that must have belonged to the client. There was a strange undertone to his heartbeat, like the bass to a song. Deeper and heavier and darker than what a body should sound like.

He wondered who the client was.

Matt found the handle and pushed himself into the room, smiling lightly in a way that apparently (according to Karen, at least) made people calm down. "Hey Foggy," he said pleasantly. "Is the client here?"

"Ah, yes," the client said, leaping to his feet.

"You must be in some trouble if you're looking for a lawyer at 5:30 in the morning," Matt joked. "I'm Foggy's business partner, Matt Murdock." He stretched out a hand.

"Bruce Banner," the client replied, accepting the hand. He had a firm grip, but his hand was shaking very slightly. Not enough for an ordinary person to feel, but Matt could.

Matt patted his way to his chair, and sat. He felt Foggy turn his head towards him, and he wondered what expression would be on his face.

"Well, we're all here now!" Foggy said. "Do you want to explain why you're here to Matt, Mr. Banner, or-?"

"Dr," Banner corrected automatically. "I can explain, but thank you."

Matt heard a deep, quiet intake of breath. He found himself leaning forward fractionally, and forced himself to sit straight.

Dr. Banner twitched. "I'm sure you're both very familiar with the Battle of New York, especially considering the damage inflicted on your neighbourhood."

Foggy's heartbeat was racing. And there was really only one reason why that would be.

Matt nodded. "We are."

"And I suppose you may have heard of the great damage in-" Banner's heartbeat was speeding up.

"Dr. Banner," Matt interrupted. "I know who you are, and I know of your- counterpart. We only represent those who are innocent or act in self-defence. I believe you come under a combination of those headings, and we are therefore happy to represent you."

"We did represent a rapist because we were poor," Foggy added helpfully. "But he got beaten up the second he left court, and his buddies tried to take Matt out, so we're just sticking to the innocent for the moment."

"One question, Dr. Banner," Matt continued. The poor man seems to be quite taken-aback. "Your- colleague Mr. Stark undoubtedly has more experienced lawyers. Why come to us, a small company barely on our feet?"

Bruce laughed quietly. "That's your only question? Nothing about how- my _condition_ arose?"

Foggy shrugged. "Well, at the moment it's not any of our business. I mean sure, later we'll probably need to know the basics, but right now…" he looked towards Matt.

"And nothing about concerns to your safety?" Dr. Banner seemed to be more surprised than his heartbeat was letting on. "The Hulk doesn't exactly make people feel safe."

"We trust you, Dr. Banner," Matt told him firmly. "You and your colleagues have all worked for the safety of the world, and for this we are grateful. And having a- a disability, of sorts- I understand that, and I also understand how that does not define you, and how you probably wish to be treated by others."

Dr. Banner seemed taken aback, but his heartbeat was slowing down, which was undoubtedly a good sign. "Oh. Thank you." He paused. "I did hear about you being attacked by that gang, it was my friend Steve, who I think you met, who recommended I find you."

Foggy, who was taking a sip of water, choked.


End file.
